


The Most Important Thing In The World

by kaijuvenom



Series: After All That’s Been Done To Me, Could You Tell Me How I’m Right For You? [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Developing Relationships, Edward's unhealthy coping mechanisms back at it again at krispy kreme, Jonathan Crane saying darlin' because I'm always a slut for that, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Partners to Romantic Partners, again this takes place in no dc timeline but my own, edward make a good decision for once in your life please im begging, if u will, is jonathan crane evil or is he simply southern. lets discuss., mentions of trauma, single serve coffee creamers are diabolical actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: Edward decides to center his affections towards someone who he has more of a chance with, and despite Harley Quinn's adamant (and frequent) warnings that Jonathan Crane is bad for him, well, Edward had never been one for self control. He was gone as soon as he looked into those green-blue kaleidoscope eyes (a phrase he'd once used, causing Harley to make exaggerated 'I'm throwing up now' motions).-- part of a series, but you don't necessarily have to read the first part before this one--
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma
Series: After All That’s Been Done To Me, Could You Tell Me How I’m Right For You? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	1. Did You Lose Yourself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written scriddler since 2015... what a comeback for me.

Jonathan Crane was dangerous, all sharp edges and cruel intentions, and the last thing the majority of the population wanted was to get closer to that danger, but Edward wasn’t exactly a perfect representative of the wants of the many. Scarecrow had the potential to send you into a fate worse than death, and he never seemed to shy away from that potential, demonstrating it at every opportunity. He was so very dangerous—but Edward had always loved dangerous things.

So maybe it wasn’t surprising that he started noticing those deadly sharp corners and that smile that was just a little too wide, those eyes that were dark and full of mystery. Harley would be the first to tell him he was a moron (although she probably wouldn’t use those exact words), but Edward wasn’t great at listening to her advice.

The funny thing was that Jonathan was probably closer to Harley than he was with anyone else, Edward assumed because they both had similar backgrounds, and yet she’d be the first one to push him in the opposite direction of Jon whenever he was around. As if she was better at relationships than he was. They’d both made terrible romantic decisions in the past, and Edward… well, he wasn’t quite done making bad choices.

Jonathan and Edward had never been close, Edward wasn’t even sure if they’d ever been alone in a room together (which was likely a subconscious survival instinct on his part), but if there was one thing he was good at, it was orchestrating situations which caused people to be in the places where he wanted them. Specifically, Scarecrow, in the hideout, alone with Edward, for several hours. Of course it was a terrible idea, no matter how you spun it, but Edward was sure he wouldn’t die. Probably. 

There was a rule against that.

On second thought... he glanced up from his position on the couch to squint at the framed rules on the wall. There was nothing explicitly against murder, or driving someone insane via fear gas. Still, Edward was adamant about keeping his hopes up. 

He’d even made fresh coffee! Although he was beginning to regret that, as he waited for Jonathan to show up, because there was something absolutely terrifying about the skinny little twig of a man chug a full mug of steaming hot coffee in one gulp and immediately pour himself another.

The fact that all Edward had done since arriving at the hideout had been to analyze all the reasons Jon would be a terrible match for him didn’t bode well, so instead he tried to focus on the positives of Jonathan, to minimize the sinking feeling of preemptive regret in his gut.

He was highly intelligent, that was good, and, despite all other opinions, Edward somehow found him attractive, in a rat sort of way. They shared a common goal, no need to worry about issues of morality and such. Edward was a naturally jealous person and he’d never once seen Jonathan flirt with another soul, he barely even looked at anyone. He seemed the type to silently listen while Edward spoke on and on about something irrelevant to pass the time. He knew about subjects Edward didn’t have experience in, namely chemistry, and he _was_ a professor, so he’d probably be a good teacher. 

Reasons why Jonathan wouldn’t be a good match for him crept back like memories of his childhood trauma. Which, ironically, was one of the reasons Jon would be bad for him. He fed off of fear, off trauma and terror, and Edward had trauma and terror in spades. He woke up sobbing every other night, and he could only imagine Jonathan Crane wouldn’t be great at comforting. In fact, if anything, he’d think it was funny.

But really, that wasn’t important. And Edward shoved it away into the back of his mind as he heard the back door slowly creak open. 

The first words Jonathan grunted as he made himself visible, locking the door behind him and shaking off his wet coat, throwing it haphazardly across the floor were, “Everyone’s trying to kill me.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, watching as Jonathan glanced around the hideout, no doubt looking for others, and upon seeing no one besides Edward, careened backwards onto the couch, letting out a long sigh. 

“You sound paranoid,” Edward said conversationally after a beat of silence, watching Jonathan stare blankly up at the ceiling.

“Of course I’m paranoid, everyone’s tryin’ to kill me.”

He smirked at that, then let out a small chuckle that he hid behind his hand. “That’s funny.” He leaned forward a little. “You’re funny.”

Jon turned his head a fraction to look at him, squinting a little. “Thanks,” he responded, deadpan, before turning back to stare blankly at the ceiling. He clearly had no plans to talk, and Edward was feeling his confidence waver with every second that ticked by.

But if there was one thing Edward prided himself in, it was his ability to get attention from even the most uninterested party. He cleared his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped, resting on his knees. 

Silence. 

Edward cleared his throat again, reaching over and poking Jonathan’s arm. He winced, instantly regretting the poke because Jonathan was so bony that even a light poke would probably result in a bruise. 

Finally, Jon decided to grace him with a modicum of the attention Edward felt he deserved, shifting a nanometer to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “What?” He asked, eyes following Edward’s movements as he stood up and walked to the counter to pour himself a mug of coffee. 

“I made coffee, you want some?” Edward asked, trying his best to act casual and nonchalant, even as he felt Jonathan’s eyes on him, even as the whole room seemed to grow colder the longer Jonathan stared, colder and smaller and-- suddenly Edward was panicking, his breath coming out in short, fast bursts, and he at least had the sense to set down the coffee pot before he dropped it on the floor. 

He could hear his heart beating all around him, thumping louder and louder, and he wanted to slam his hands over his ears to shut out the noise, but he felt paralyzed, like if he moved the entire world would collapse around him. Instead of succumbing to the sudden bout of terror, he smiled, letting out a sharp laugh, managing to move his body enough to turn his head to look at Jonathan, who was still staring at him. 

“Is that new?” He managed to breathe out, not that he had a frame of reference, he’d never been affected by any of Scarecrow’s experiments before, but he didn’t remember anyone ever mentioning Scarecrow had a form of fear gas that could be released without anyone noticing until they’d already breathed it in. 

Jonathan didn’t respond for a moment, standing up and striding over to Edward, who took a step back against the counter at his abrupt movement, his breath catching in his throat as Jonathan grabbed his wrist, squeezing and holding it there for a moment, before dropping it and moving his hand to Edward’s neck, pushing two fingers against it as he studied Edward’s face like he was some kind of strange lizard he’d found hidden in a bush. 

“Mmhm,” he finally said, removing his hand after several long seconds and stepping back. “Feel lucky, you’re my first lab rat.” 

“Have you ever considered…” Edward shivered, as if he could simply shake away the sudden rush of adrenaline, unconsciously bringing his hand up to where Jonathan had touched his neck, measuring his pulse, obviously, which Edward rather stupidly realized, “using actual rats?” He finally finished the question, trying to ignore the way his arms were still shaking. 

“Oh, I do,” he said. “They all died a few days after I tried it out on ‘em.”

His blood ran cold and he swallowed uncomfortably. “You’re joking, right? That's a joke.”

Jon shrugged at him, turning away, still with that infuriating smile on his face. Edward let the fear wash over him, riding out the feeling until it faded away to the nagging little warning it had been before Jonathan had arrived. 

“You’re funny,” Edward repeated his statement from earlier, albeit this time a little more hollowly as he watched Jonathon lay back down on the couch, his neck hitting the armrest with a crack that made Edward flinch, but didn’t seem to affect Jonathan. 

“Did you want coffee, or…” Edward began, glancing back at the mug and frowning to himself, wondering in the back of his mind where he could find a second one. Maybe there was one in the sink he could rinse off.

“Sure,” Jonathan answered, stirring Edward out of his mug-related quandary. 

Instead of searching for a mug, Edward made a carefully considered and well thought-out (it was neither of those things, he was nervous and acting on base instincts) decision to pour steaming hot coffee into a glass and use that for himself. It was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter into a million pieces as he picked it up along with the mug, because it sure was burning his hand. 

He stepped back over to where Jonathan was lying on the couch and kicked at his foot, nudging it away as he held out the coffee. “Up. This glass is killing my hand.”

Jonathan stared up at him, his eyes were light, a shade that Edward might be able to consider warm and inviting on anyone else, but his were deep set and ringed in dark circles, and his stare was wide and piercing. It was like he was the personification of a Tim Burton character. Anyone else would’ve broken the eye contact, but Edward found Jon’s stare intoxicating.

“Why don’t you set it down, then,” Jonathan said, and Edward wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, as his voice had carried no emphasis with his words. 

“Because I’d like to sit down.”

“Next to me?” This time, if Edward wasn’t terribly mistaken, there was a hint of emotion in his voice, whatever tone could be qualified as the most lukewarm form of incredulity. 

“Why not?” Edward shrugged, as if his heart rate hadn’t just sped up. He couldn’t tell if the adrenaline still pumping through his body was the result of Jonathan’s fear gas or simply the situation he was currently in. 

There was a long silence that Edward counted in heartbeats, trying to ignore the way his hand literally felt like it was on fire (he really should’ve just looked for another mug), before Jonathan allowed Edward the pleasure of sitting down next to him, moving his feet and sitting up, at least a little. Edward briefly allowed himself to criticize his terrible posture before sitting down and setting his coffee on the table in front of them. 

His hand was definitely burned, but he chose to ignore that in favor of watching the way Jonathan took his own coffee mug from Edward’s other, non-burned, hand, the way their fingers brushed together for less than a second. Edward was still staring at his hand as he drained the entire mug in one gulp, not even bothering to be perfunctorily disturbed by his ability to drink burning hot coffee that quickly. 

In fact, he was only brought out of his staring contest with Jonathan’s long, spindly fingers by the sound of his voice.

“Would you be a darlin’ and refill it for me?” He asked, holding out the now-empty mug.

Edward blinked several times, unsure how to react to being called _darling_ , before he slowly took the mug from Jonathan and stood up. “How could I resist that Southern charm,” he said, rolling his eyes to demonstrate how totally unaffected he was by Jon’s words. “Where are you from again? Was it Georgia?” He knew exactly where Jonathan was from, he knew his family was prominent in their area, or at least had been, before Jonathan’s parents had died and the family had fallen off, that he’d lived on what had used to be a plantation in a giant colonial revival house, and he’d been raised by his grandmother until he’d left for college. 

“Home of moonshine and racism,” Jonathan answered.

“Wow, is that their slogan? Always thought they had something to do with peaches.” Edward filled the mug back up, and, deciding to make an executive decision, brought the coffee pot with him as he sat back down. “Or sweet tea.”

“I hate sweet tea,” Jonathan muttered, probably to himself, but it made Edward smile anyway, feeling like he was at least getting somewhere with this. 

“But you have nothing against flavored coffee creamers,” Edward clarified, his smile growing a little more genuine as he watched Jonathan’s eyebrow twitch.

“Not _in_ my coffee,” he clarified, as if that were a necessary distinction to make.

“Because that makes it _so_ much better. It’s not horrifying at all to watch you peel open single serve cups of vanilla coffee creamer one after another and drink them like shots.”

“How else will I get the energy to maintain my sunny disposition?” Jonathan asked, and Edward laughed again, almost snorting with amusement. 

“If this is you energetic, I shudder to think of you at the end of the day.”

“As you should.”

A crack formed on the glass Edward had poured his coffee into, and he really should’ve seen that coming. The sound of the crack was loud enough to draw both of their attention to the glass, watching as hot coffee slowly oozed out of the crack in the glass.

“You gonna get that?” 

Edward shook his head, not removing his eyes from the glass. Another crack formed, more coffee dribbled out, and then the whole thing shattered. 

“How ‘bout now?” Jonathan asked, raising an eyebrow as Edward turned towards him. 

“Nope,” Edward said, popping the _p_ and leaning back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

“Is there a reason you wanted me here?” Jonathan asked, and the question made Edward’s eyes widen. He coughed to cover up his shock, Jonathan wasn’t _supposed_ to know Edward had carefully orchestrated a sequence of events in exacting fashion that would lead to him and Jonathan having several hours to themselves in the hideout.

“Um,” he said intelligently. 

He sighed. “You’re tryin’ to kill me too, aren’t you?” 

He really was paranoid, but he was moving his hand now, into his pocket, probably where he kept some syringes of fear gas, or a switchblade, something like that.

“No!” Ed yelped, leaning backward and putting his hands up placatingly. “I’m not! I’m, uh, I want to work with you!” He blurted out without thinking it through, and immediately regretted saying it. He had a reputation for not working well with others. Specifically because he ended up double-crossing them at the last minute and running away with priceless jewels and several million dollars, and he doubted Scarecrow had the same sense of humor towards a casual betrayal at the last minute inside of a bank vault between friends that Query and Echo did. 

The look Jonathan gave him made Edward feel fairly confident that he would not be making it out of the encounter alive. “You see, I… well, i’m in need of a partner. And you! See, you have a… well, a cover. Which, as I’m sure you know, is something I am severely lacking in.”

“Which isn’t my problem.”

“Nor should it be,” Edward agreed, holding out a finger. “ _But_ , I think if we were to work together on something, it could really be…” he waved his hand, trying to summon the words out of the air, “spectacular. Beautiful. Effervescent, even.”

“Effervescent,” Jonathan repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Edward should learn to think through his words before he spoke them, but it was too late to take it back now. “Yes, effervescent.”

“This got anything to do with last month?” 

He cringed involuntarily at the mention of _last month_ . An infuriating and incredibly embarrassing mistake he’d really love to forget as soon as possible, but, he supposed, it did. Not only that, but he could make up a lie about exactly why he’d need Jonathan to work with him because of what had happened _last month._ Without ever telling him the real reason. 

“See, I’m sure you know, I’m very capable on my own. That kidnapping of the mayor went off without a cinch because I kept the Batman distracted for the perfect amount of time. I do well by myself, heists and robberies, kidnappings, the whole shebang, but...” He trailed off as he watched Jonathan’s expression change from one of distrust and annoyance to, hopefully, one of interest. He was being psychoanalyzed, he was sure of it, but he made an executive decision not to remind Jonathan of the rule against that. “I make impulsive decisions sometimes.” That wasn’t true. Every single one of Edward’s decisions were carefully calculated and thought out, even if they were, objectively, the stupidest possible things he could do. When he’d told the Batman how to get into the room he’d been hiding in, he’d known exactly what would happen. And he’d done it anyway, because at that time, his brain had determined it was the best thing for him to do. 

He couldn’t tell if Jonathan believed him or not, but at least he looked like he mildly cared about what Edward had to say. 

“I’ll work with you,” he said, after a long moment. “I’ve actually been needin’ a partner. Had a few close calls lately, it’d be easier with someone else.”

Edward squinted at him. He couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. “Great. So. Partners?” He held out a hand, and Jonathan stared at it for an uncomfortably long time before shaking it. 

“Partners,” he agreed. 

Well, it was a step in the right direction, Edward supposed.

Although Harley’s warning about Crane flooded back into his mind and he frowned.

It was _a_ step in _a_ direction, he corrected. It was unclear whether or not it was the _right_ direction. 


	2. It’s Always In The Last Place That You’d Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow backstory! I made it up! What universe is this, you ask?? MINE. It's my universe and I get to decide which elements of which different versions of canon I pick and choose from.

Doctor Jonathan Crane, MD, PhD, actually liked teaching. He was fairly certain his students liked his teaching even more than he liked having a comfy, tenured position at Gotham U, probably because he showed up late to class, let them eat and use their phones during lectures and exams, and was usually drunk during office hours. His classes weren’t necessarily easy, he wrote his exams himself and they were always essay questions, the answers to which couldn’t be found with a quick google search, and when it came to grading, he handed out F’s solely dependent on whether or not the essay mentioned Freud, and an automatic A was given if Freud was a subject of ridicule. 

His standards were low and he didn’t give a shit about grammar or spelling, and he actively discouraged people from raising their hands, would rather they just shouted out questions and unrelated comments. 

So when he’d been approached by a representative of the mayor with a job offer, he’d declined it almost immediately. First of all, he didn’t like the mayor. He barely tolerated Gotham as a city, he couldn’t be expected to want to work with the people responsible for driving the city further into corruption every day. Second of all, Jonathan was tenured. He could publish bullshit articles and spent entire class periods saying whatever the fuck he wanted and no one could say a thing about it. 

Professionally speaking, that is. His social circle had all but dissipated after one of his published papers gained traction due to his uncensored and completely unsubtle critical analysis of the nature of billionaires hosting charity balls. Its publishing had (coincidentally, of _course_ , coincided with the Wayne Enterprises Annual Charity Ball. Needless to say, an invitation hadn’t been extended to him. Jonathan doubted if working for the city would allow him to continue calling the mayor an idiot and Wayne Enterprises corrupt and mismanaged, not to mention the way it underpaid its employees. 

Third of all, he had no interest in working in an Asylum. He was offended on behalf of anyone with a mental illness (so, he was personally offended) simply by the fact that it was still called an _asylum_. It was old, rundown, dilapidated, corrupt, and received a yearly budget of twenty times less than the police force and ten times less than the prison system. 

He’d dismissed the representative with a derisive laugh and a rude hand gesture. 

His next paper focused on the bastardization and villainizing attitude towards those with mental illnesses, and how words like _crazy, demented, sick,_ and, most prominently, _asylum_ were used to keep them silent by causing neurotypical people to fear them. 

It wasn’t a smart decision he’d made, Jonathan realized a bit too late, as he had ample time to consider his decision-making while being escorted to the mayor’s home by several bodyguards to have a ‘chat’. Everyone knew Oswald Cobblepot controlled the mob, that he could have anything in the city he wanted with a snap of his fingers. And for some reason, he’d decided he wanted Jonathan Crane to work for him. Great. There was really no refusing him, so his mind was made up before he’d even entered through the ostentatious gold doors of the mayor’s office and watched Oswald spin around in his chair to face him like a—well, like a mob boss. Which he was, so Jonathan supposed he was entitled to a bit of dramatics. 

“I have a class at one. Don’t make me late.”

“Oh, that’s been taken care of.”

“Taken…” Jonathan trailed off, sighing. “You got me fired? I’m _tenured_!” And Jonathan really liked making sure everyone knew he was, too. It was his only accomplishment in life, really.

“Rest assured that the college board understands your resignation was for the best, you explained it very eloquently in your letter.”

“My... you forged my resignation letter?” Somehow, that was even more insulting than getting him fired. He crossed his arms, trying not to curse out a mob boss. 

“Had it forged, more like. Now, I understand you don’t want to work for me. I’ve read your papers, your interviews, heard your speeches and lectures,” he began, and Jonathan frowned. 

“Then why the hell do you want me to work for you?”

Oswald leaned forward, clasping his hands on top of his desk. “You remember Harvey Dent?”

Of course he remembered Harvey Dent. Everyone in Gotham remembered Harvey Dent, the brilliant lawyer who swore to clean up the corruption of the city and actually delivered—and everyone in the country remembered Two Face. If Jonathan Crane wasn’t mistaken, he was fairly certain he was currently serving his time in Arkham. 

“What about him?” 

“When I ran for mayor, the people were out of options. Harvey Dent was being dragged off to Arkham and I offered them hope. Now I’m up for re-election, but I’m not as respected as I was.” He looked pointedly at Jonathan as if to say _and that’s all your fault._ “The only reason I didn’t have you killed when you first started spouting your nonsense about my corruption and ‘lies’ is because you have quite a few fans, Doctor Crane. You’re respected, much like Harvey Dent was, but without the pretension of a lawyer.”

“Get to the damn point.”

“I want you to work for me at Arkham. You can do whatever you want, rename the place, give it a fresh coat of paint, hire the inmates personal assistants for all I care, you’ll have billions of dollars at your disposal.”

“And you want me to stop writing papers criticizing you, I’d assume.” 

“Well, yes, that comes in the contract,” Oswald said, handing Jonathan a rather large stack of papers stapled together. “I’ll give you a few days to think it over, when you’ve signed the contract, come to the Iceberg Lounge and we’ll get everything finalized.”

“And… if I don’t sign it?” Jonathan asked, feeling like he already knew the answer. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He waved his hand, and the guard who’d been standing behind Jonathan’s chair escorted him out. He was left on his own to find his way back to his apartment, which was fine and good, because it gave him time on his walk home to read through the dense legalese of the contract. 

Obviously, he’d ended up signing it. And that was when the entire downward spiral had begun. At first, Jonathan convinced himself he was doing the city a favor. Penguin owed him, after all. And Jonathan had wanted revenge. He’d wanted humans to experiment with, to perfect something he’d been studying for years of his life. 

So he asked for Penguin to have a few of his least favorite Gotham socialites and various rich assholes arrested. When he gave them a psych evaluation, he may have fudged the answers a bit so they’d end up in Arkham, but did that really matter? They’d be insane in enough time. 

It was only a handful of people, at first. Trickling over months and into years as Jonathan perfected his fear toxins, but then something rather unfortunate happened. It had been a series of dominos, starting with something as innocuous as Jonathan making a small mistake on a staff assignment list, and ending with the Scarecrow being born.

Doctor Quinzel was fairly new, both to Gotham City itself and to Arkham. She was kind, traditionally pretty, and naivety practically oozed off of her. Jonathan had been against hiring her from the start, simply because he knew the place would either drive her insane or completely break her spirit. But she’d been the only applicant with good credentials who’d passed Jonathan’s empathy test. And he’d really needed the help. He decided she’d be alright, if he just kept a close eye on her until she adjusted to the environment. He reviewed all of the patients she’d be working with and gave her as much information on them as he could, even sitting in on the first few appointments she had with them. He gave her all the encouragement and reassurance he hadn’t given to the rest of his staff, but still, it hadn’t been enough. It was only a few months after she’d started working at Arkham that Jonathan made a mistake.

It was quite possibly the worst mistake Jonathan had ever made, both in his career and his life in general. When creating the appointment schedule for next week, he mislabeled a column and didn’t bother checking it over once he was done. He didn’t realize he’d assigned Doctor Quinzel to therapy with the Joker—who had just arrived back in Arkham again, third time’s the charm—until Doctor Quinzel had emailed him her report on the session. 

And _that_ hadn’t even been Jonathan’s biggest mistake. Harleen had seemed to be genuinely getting through to him, in a way no other doctor had been able to. So he’d let her continue to treat him. Things had seemed normal. He’d stopped checking up on her. 

So when Joker escaped Arkham and took her with him, Jonathan couldn’t blame anyone but himself. She was a perfect victim for him; kind to a fault, always ready to see the good in others, willing to do whatever it took to help someone. He should’ve seen it. He _had_ seen it, that was why he hadn’t let Harleen treat him in the past. 

He wasn’t sure what he was angrier about, the fact that he hadn’t stopped it before it got that far, or the fact that Joker had been able to manipulate him into believing he might actually be benefiting from Doctor Quinzel’s therapy without even speaking to him. 

Of _course_ he hadn’t been benefitting from the therapy. He was the Joker. He knew how to play people, it was what he _did._ And because Jonathan had been too stupid to realize it, now it was too late. Harleen was gone, and he wouldn’t get her back. It was like losing a sister, one who he’d only had for ten months, sure, but a sister nonetheless. 

The idea of revenge came to him most nights after that, dreams filled with the Joker’s grinning face and his haunting laugh. That was when the insomnia had started. He took a leave of absence, not that it helped. He wanted to kill the Joker. More than that, he wanted to kill every single person who’d ever gotten away with as much as the Joker had just because the world loved a redemption arc (and yes, Jonathan himself was on that list). At the very top of the list was the Batman. It had been his fault the Joker had been in Arkham in the first place, instead of six feet down or in a maximum security prison cell somewhere in Antarctica. 

Jonathan had never before wanted to see someone die, he didn’t enjoy it. He’d had patients die, whether by disease, murder, or suicide, he’d seen it all. The millionaire socialites he drove insane didn’t usually last long before their bodies gave out. He didn’t like seeing death, in fact, he’d (controversially) always been of the opinion that murder and death in general was Bad. Joker changed that mindset, like a switch being flipped. 

It’s all fine and good when you’re watching from a distance the evil acts someone commits, you can distance yourself, say ‘oh, they need help. They should be helped, not killed,’ but that sort of rationale (as true as it may be) tends to go out the window when you’re right next to the atrocities being committed. At least, it did for Jonathan. 

Not only had Joker taken Harleen, but he’d killed three other patients as well as an orderly during his escape attempt. Jonathan was tired. He didn’t want to help anymore. He just wanted it all to end, and if the Batman wouldn’t do it, he’d do it himself.

Most of the patients in Arkham were victims themselves, in fact, that was the first time he saw Doctor Quinzel again—Harley Quinn, now, the Joker’s partner. He’d failed her. He’d tried to treat her, he even thought perhaps she wouldn’t go back to Joker, but when the time came like clockwork, the Joker broke her out and she went with him, apparently without a second thought. 

Months passed, and Jonathan’s mental state was rapidly deteriorating. He didn’t sleep or eat, he let security measures loosen, stopped giving nurses background checks, and Arkham fell back into the disrepair it had been in before he’d started working there. 

It wasn’t until the third anniversary of the night Joker had broken out of Arkham that Jonathan made any sort of attempt at killing either the Joker or the Batman. It just happened that Joker had been planning something, some sort of trap for the Batman to fall into, the last time he’d been at Arkham, and Jonathan had gotten just enough information on it to put the pieces together. It had been oh-so-satisfying to see the Joker cower in fear when doused with Jonathan’s toxin, and he almost won, too. The Batman and Joker had been under the effects of the toxin, he could’ve killed them right then, but he’d paused to take the Batman’s mask off. It gave Joker a few seconds to get away, and Jonathan had chased after him before getting the Batman’s mask off all the way. He hadn’t caught the Joker that night, or any night for a long time afterwards. But this mysterious creature of fear, _Scarecrow,_ who had tried to kill both Joker and the Batman, had been revealed to the world. 

The public still wasn’t sure where he stood in the realm of villain to hero, but their questioning was put to rest when the Scarecrow killed an elevator full of innocent people to distract the Batman. That had been an accident—Jonathan still wouldn’t deliberately try to kill someone whom he didn’t have a grudge against, but he’d done it, so he supposed it didn’t really matter. 

It was surprising that Jonathan still hadn’t been found out. He still owned Arkham and masqueraded as Scarecrow when the mood struck. It was a miracle he’d never been caught and unmasked. It was a greater miracle none of his fellow rogues had ever turned him in. Whether to the GCPD or to Joker (who still had yet to puzzle out Jonathan’s identity, which was one of his biggest and only accomplishments). 

But he’d never exactly made any progress either. The Joker still (unfortunately) lived, and while Harley had freed herself of his grasp some years ago, Jonathan still had yet to. He was _going_ to kill Joker. Somehow, some way. 

Which brought him to the present.

And what an odd present it was. 

Edward Nygma sat next to him on the couch of the only hideout Jonathan felt safe enough to ever use (Joker and his associates were banned from it), declaring them partners as he blatantly ignored the spilled coffee and broken glass on the table and floor in front of them. The first time Jonathan had met Edward had been roughly a year ago, first of Edward’s many trips to Arkham. He’d never been the one to give Edward therapy, but they’d met in passing and Jonathan hadn’t bothered to learn anything about him past the fact that he tended to drive his cellmates up the wall with his constant chattering. 

In fact, his contact with Edward was almost entirely meetings in passing in Arkham (after Edward had been accepted as one of the rogues, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out Jonathan was Scarecrow, Harley probably told him), save for last month. It was the first time Scarecrow had worked with Edward, even if they’d barely had any contact. 

It had been an interesting experience, to say the least. Harley (being the tattle she was) had told him all about it, and they’d spent quite a long time discussing his behavior. Jonathan might have the decency to feel bad about it now, but he’d tried not to let debilitating things like empathy hold him back.

They didn’t have much in common. Edward’s style was far more flamboyant than Jonathan’s, he couldn’t imagine ever agreeing with him on anything, his compulsive need for attention constantly caused him problems, getting him caught. But he was intelligent, that much was certain. 

He couldn’t be _that_ hard to work with. Jonathan would have to make a note to check Edward’s Arkham file when he got back to work, just so he’d know what he was getting into.


	3. I Might Find Myself By Retracing My Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short! I've been struggling for months on how to end this so I just figured I'd write something and finish it up so I don't have to agonize over it anymore lmao.

Jonathan was getting into something a lot more complicated than he’d originally thought, apparently. Edward’s Arkham file was fifty-seven pages long and he’d been assigned every single psychiatrist that had worked for Jonathan in the past three years. They’d all given up, or perhaps been driven insane themselves, after a few months, sometimes only weeks. 

At first, Jonathan dedicated himself to reading through every single page, not leaving anything out, but that task soon proved to be far harder than he thought it would be, so he began skimming, looking for buzzwords and interesting tidbits of information. 

He picked up on things he’d assumed based off their limited contact; daddy issues, an inferiority complex, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and so on. There were other theories, some better than others, and going through the reports of all the doctors Jonathan had assigned to Ed, he was rather astounded at how terrible some of them were. This was possibly the first time he’d actively read a patient’s file since Doctor Quinzel—Harley—had left.

Having a partner would make things easier, Jonathan usually preferred to work alone, but Edward had interests that laid nearly on the opposite spectrum of Jon’s, he liked art and jewels and flashy things, and Jonathan _was_ in desperate need of money. Over the past years, the Penguin seemed to have either forgotten or simply assumed Jonathan no longer cared (he didn’t) to pay him and the entirety of the Arkham staff a reasonable wage. 

“I don’t see why _I_ have to come with you,” Jonathan said, breaking off his train of thought and addressing Edward, who was wandering about his office, currently reading Ivy’s psychological profile. 

Edward briefly glanced up at him, then looked back down at the papers, flipping through them. “That’s what _partners_ means, Jonathan. You do things equally. And your profile is wrong.” He waved Ivy’s papers in front of Jonathan’s face until he snatched them away and threw them back into his desk drawer. 

“But you don’t _need_ my help. You could do all this yourself, and what do you mean, my profile is wrong?” 

“It says Ivy hates men. She only hates the rich, straight ones,” Edward elaborated, before adding, “and me.”

“Aren’t you rich?” Jonathan asked, feeling his eye twitch of its own accord. 

“Not _that_ rich. Hence, why we need these jewels if we’re supposed to afford _this much_ rhodium, which you _refuse_ to even tell me why we need it, but that’s a whole other problem, _besides,_ I’m not straight. Did you really think I was straight? What about my energy says _straight person_ to you? What else do I need to do here to make it obvious that—”

“Okay, can we please get back to our plan?” Jonathan needed to add ‘attention span of a goldfish’ to Edward’s psychological profile. 

Edward pouted, apparently annoyed Jonathan had cut him off in the middle of what was probably a highly enlightening rant which he hadn’t been listening to. He hopped up onto Jonathan’s desk, sitting far too close to him for it to be normal, but Jonathan checked it off to Edward not knowing how humans interacted, which he could relate to. 

“You’re coming with me. Because if you don’t, I won’t give you any of the jewels, then you won’t have the money, and—” 

“Fine. Fine, whatever. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Edward’s eyes widened at that statement, and Jon felt his cheeks get a little warmer, and he looked down at his lap. 

“You know what I meant,” Jonathan muttered, trying to establish a tone of nonchalance. 

“I don’t know if I did,” Edward responded, delicately covering his mouth to hide a laugh, as if to make a mockery of the very concept of manners. “I might need you to elaborate on exactly what you’re willing to do for me, _Doctor_ Crane.”

“Shut up.”

“Never. You signed up for this, ergo, me.”

“A decision I regret more with every passing day.” Jonathan sighed, standing up from his desk just as Edward had reached out an arm towards him, almost like he’d been about to touch him, and he paused, staring at the way Edward’s hand dangled halfway up, and then brought his eyes up to meet Edward’s gaze. “What…” he began, and then Edward’s hand moved again, gripping Jonathan by his tie and roughly pulling him in until he was only a centimeter from Edward’s face.

He smelled like mint, with a hint of sweetness, almost sugary. Jonathan blinked at him, staring into Edward’s eyes, but he made no attempt to move away. His hand came up and encircled Edward’s wrist. His skin was soft, which was not something Jonathan ever tended to notice, on anyone, but it simply wasn’t often he had the opportunity to notice. And now, here, for some reason, Edward was offering him this opportunity. 

“We should leave now,” Edward said. “I promised Harley I wouldn’t spend too much time with you alone. She seems to think you’ll kill me at any minor inconvenience.”

“I might,” Jonathan responded, a wide smile forming on his face. “Don’t you want to stay and find out, darlin’?”

“I do _hate_ to leave a mystery unsolved,” Edward said, and he shifted forward, moving so one of his legs brushed against the back of Jonathan’s, pulling him further in slowly. 

“Make a decision before I pull a muscle in my back,” Jonathan said, fully aware that wasn’t the appropriate way one was expected to seduce someone, but he was a thirty-year old with a body more suited for a ninety-year old grandmother with arthritis, he couldn’t be expected to stand in this position all day. 

Edward didn’t seem to mind Jonathan’s lack of tact, as he snorted, ducking his head down briefly to laugh, before looking back up at him through his lashes.

Briefly, Jonathan wondered if Edward wore eyelash extensions, or if he simply had naturally long eyelashes that curled up at exactly the right angle and made him look far more innocent than he actually was. That train of thought was cut off by the feeling of Edward’s lips against his, and his eyes slipped shut of their own accord.

The kiss didn’t last long, and when Edward pulled away, he ran a hand against Jonathan’s lower lip, making him shiver. “Your lips are really chapped,” he commented, and Jonathan felt the distinct need to roll his eyes.

“Deepest apologies, I’ll try to improve upon that,” he responded sarcastically, beginning to move away before realizing he couldn’t because Edward had yet to release his tie. 

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m attracted to you,” Edward said, staring at Jonathan’s face as if he might find the answer there (which, to be perfectly honest, Jonathan doubted, he was about as well known for his good looks as he was for his cheery and pleasant personality; which was to say, not at all). 

“You’re terrible at this.” 

“At least I moisturize.” 

Any further arguments were silenced by Jonathan initiating another kiss, hoping to get Edward to shut up for, at the very least, a second.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kaijuvenom)   
>  [Tumblr](https://kaijuvenom.tumblr.com/)   
> 


End file.
